


Dead, and still alone

by bathandbodyworks



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Angst, But Not Much, Hurt/Comfort, Oops, Self Loathing, Self-Esteem Issues, Shiro (Voltron) Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Some Romance, shiro can’t really control the galra arm, very little comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-18
Updated: 2018-08-18
Packaged: 2019-06-28 23:14:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15717069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bathandbodyworks/pseuds/bathandbodyworks
Summary: When Lance pushes, he gives. When Keith shoves, he gives. When Allura asks, he gives. When Voltron speaks, he listens.-Shiro’s arm is Galra, and they let him know it always will be.





	Dead, and still alone

**Author's Note:**

  * For [a_fearsome_thing](https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_fearsome_thing/gifts).



> He can’t control it, and sometimes, he doesn’t want to.

His arm isn’t something he’s ever had control of. 

He feels a sharp pain lace up and down his arm, ancient metals and magic combining into a toxic formula that makes him want to rip his arm off and throw it out into the endless vast of space. 

Maybe he would. But he needs it to fight, to defend, to free the universe. He needs to protect his team. He has no bayard, and he’s spent too much time being useless, and who really cares if his lying deceiving vicious arm doesn’t do what he wants when he wants it to. 

As long as it stops Galra, who really cares? 

%%%

He throws a punch, his left hand first, and grunts as his right arm flies forward in a fist without his consent. It’s not lighting up, purple Galra light suspiciously absent for once. But the head of the droid he’s practicing on still goes flying; a terrifying display of power that Shiro’s never felt any desire to see. 

The metal of the head clangs on the floor, and Shiro can almost remember something metal, something attached to him as it clangs on the ground as he refuses to do something terrible, but instead he’s just frozen as the memories threaten to emerge, but never do. 

It’s all hazy, his time with the Galra, and his hand clenches, _open and close_ and he’s breathing too heavy, but as long as he’s not here, with a metal head on the floor and the distant memory of brand new metal arms’ on his mind, 

who really cares? 

%%%

He knows there’s a reason why Pidge and Hunk gave him separate outfits for when he’s not a Paladin, since they don’t have anymore of the metal that his arm won’t melt away, but sometimes he can’t make himself stand up and do something for himself, do something that’s not for someone else, something that makes someone other than himself disappointed. 

And his arm flashes, bright purple in a beautiful sea of blue and white and he watches with eyes that are only dead when he’s alone, as the sleeve of his shirt sizzles up before it fades away in gentle cracks of electricity, and he stares at it long after its gone. 

The arm turns off, and he can’t help but hate how he wishes the bright purple of the metal would go up and up and up and never stop. 

%%%

Lance doesn’t say anything. He knows he sees. He knows Lance wants to and doesn’t, and he’s glad Lance has enough self control for that. He’s proud. He’s watched the blue paladin grow in a way he knows he never can, never will. 

The arm sizzles, and the glass in his hand reflects light until it’s entirely an eerie purple, the arm glowing harmlessly, until it’s not harmless anymore, and the cup melts away with a hiss; and it’s gone and only the carefully fine ashes remain, floating through the air and forcing themselves up Shiro’s nostrils, a cold and sharp reminder of just how big of a screw up he is, and not letting him forget it. 

He sees Lance not say anything, just going back to talking and eating, and for that, he’s thankful.

%%% 

The arm pulls itself out, shooting out from under him as he does push ups and dragging him to the wall, holding him there there with magic and something else, the purple lights ruining everything.

He yanks his arm, attempting in vain to free his hand from the wall, but it’s stuck, and he stumbles backwards before planting himself when the Galra arm finally lets go of the wall. He drops to the floor, his knees against his chest, his arm out and away, and he thinks of before. 

Of when he wasn’t a weapon. 

Of when he wasn’t alone. 

%%%

Allura’s talking. But he can’t hear her. He’s trying, he really is, but he’s putting so much effort into making sure his arm doesn’t disintegrate the strange Altean tablet in his hands, which contains all the codes and passwords he knows he needs to bring to Pidge. It’s hard to listen over all the infinite pain screeching up and down his arm. It’s too loud, too painful, too desperate. 

She says something else, and he nods, and walks off, before shoving the heavy tablet onto a counter and _finally_ letting go, and he watches with morbid fascination as the arm lights up, the Galra arm that he hates with every fiber of his fucked-up being, and he hesitantly cradles it against his chest when it’s done. 

It’s a lot, to control and use the arm, and it seems the more he uses it properly, of his own volition and rules, the more it seems to refuse him. 

%%%

The arm doesn’t come off. It’s not like Earth prosthetics, that have to be removed on a consistent basis to work properly, but it’s permanently attached to his body; an intricate array of wires and nerves and gears and veins.

He can feel everything, hot and cold, smooth and rough, sharp and soft, but it’s not the same. Everything’s a little too jagged, a little too foreign, a little too _Galra._

%%%

He thinks of when he first got it. It’s hazy and painful and clearly traumatic, but he can’t help himself. He wants a source for his suffering, someone to scream at and blame, to make hurt in turn for everything that’s happened to him. 

He remembers the sharp, tangy sound of blades, the Galra version of medical equipment in a world that’s only victory and death, and he remembers sharp, sharp, _sharp_ , but the pain? That’s not there. 

He can’t remember who did it. Or why. Or when or where or how. 

But it is a blur, and the colors bleed until they sting. 

%%%

He puts his arm on Keith’s shoulder, and yanks it off when Keith shouts in pain. Keith’s mouth is wide, shocked and hurt and a million other emotions he can’t place, and he feels for Keith. 

He does. 

Keith tells him it’s alright, it’s okay, he gets it. But he knows the truth, he does, even if no one else understands. Keith doesn’t understand, he can’t possibly. Keith’s in control, maybe not all the time, but in the ways that matter? Keith’s always there and ready. 

Keith doesn’t have a vicious arm that acts of it’s own accord, that seemingly hates its owner and also everyone else, and tortures him with bright purple lights when he’s trying to sleep. Keith doesn’t get it. 

No one does. 

%%%

Sharp pain, up and down, he’s here and then he’s not, and it’s _her_ face he sees before he’s gone, basking in the glow of his demented arm.

%%%

Dead. Gone. Passed on. Not alive. 

That’s him. 

He heard them say ‘missing’. They’re terrified of him being dead, and they should be. It sucks. 

But now he’s alone, with only a sentient lion and a poison arm for company. 

It’s hard to hate anything up where the fish don’t swim, but if he did hate one thing, he knows what it would be. 

%%%

He yells for Lance, who has to understand, who has to get what he says, and the arm flickers meaninglessly, maybe somehow sensing that it can go home again, wherever that may be, and he hates it all over again. 

%%%

There’s no time to explain to Keith. Someone’s fighting him, pulling him off into a different and less meaningful direction, and it’s probably the Galra arm that flickers all the time, that would haunt his dreams if the dead ever slept. 

And he’s gone, the arm all that remains for a split second before it’s gone too, and he thinks that that’s a pretty good metaphor for how his life has gone so far. 

%%%

He wakes with a _gasp_. 

His first air in months, and it’s beautiful and freeing in a way nothing else is. 

Keith’s there, and so is Allura and Hunk and Lance and Pidge and Coran and everyone else he doesn’t yet know, but he will, cause wow, he’s alive, and if that’s not beautiful, then what is? 

He doesn’t notice till later. 

%%%

Keith apologizes all the time. He tells him not to, that it’s okay, he didn’t have a choice, he did what he had to do to survive. 

He doesn’t tell him that he’s glad it’s gone, glad that the Galra can’t infect him anymore, glad that they can’t own him like he’s still their champion. He doesn’t tell him that he’s thankful for the new body, because this body never hurt in the way he did, in the way he never will again. 

He sleeps and almost cries for the first time since he died, and then he does cry, just because he knows he can. 

%%%

He’s in control of the new arm, a fascinating piece of technology that works just right.

It’s light, and smooth, and it’s not foreign at all, with no hint of the Galra anywhere. 

Shiro loves it, and he just knows it’s going to take him to the stars.  


**Author's Note:**

> can you tell I wrote this at 3am when my anxiety wouldn’t let up, lmao. 
> 
> Feel free to leave comments and/or kudos!!! Thanks so much for reading! 
> 
> Also, this was inspired by a line in the user I gifted this to’s work. They’re amazing, and everything they write is just fantastic!!!
> 
> Also, this is my first Voltron fic, but don’t hesitate to check out some of the other things I’ve written.


End file.
